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Frost on the soil and forests baldness,
sky gray corrugated iron.
Going out into the yard in October of odd,
shivering, the number is rounded up to "oh, fuck you".
You're not a bird, to fly away,
because in search of something sweet whole
you drove the universe, more like
there is no page to go to the wildlife.
Zazimuem same here, with black cover next,
permeable chill outside, away - view,
over the hill in an open field on a pile of words
pen Cyrillic pinholes.

1975 – 1976

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